Revenge
by LivingInAnotherUniverse
Summary: Mossad Agent Naava was sent on a mission in Washington DC. What she didn't expect was to be kidnapped, tortured, and a whole manner of unholy things happen to her. How does she take her revenge? Rated M for language, torture, and other things ...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I uploaded this before, about a year ago, then revisited it and didn't like where it was going. What a fickle writer I am! (this is my 3rd time trying to write this bloody thing, urgg.) Anyway … on with it!

**Prologue: Escape**

I took the grimy piece of paper out of my pant pocket, trying to keep it clean from the blood coursing down my arm. The address on it was faded, the phone number barely legible. But I took out his phone and dialed anyway.

I grimaced as I raised my bloody arm up to my ear and listen to it ringing.

"Officer David." A female voice answered.

"Shalom, Ziva." I murmured in Hebrew.

"Who is this?" She asked, keeping her voice low as she spoke her native tongue.

"My name is unimportant. Are you still loyal to Mossad?"

"Yes." She paused. "And no."

"Then you can help me."

"How?"

"Find me." I muttered, then snapped the phone closed. I kept it on, against all protocol, expecting Ziva to find some way to find me. I hoped she was curious, since I mentioned Mossad.

I slid down the face of the wall behind me. It was dark, almost midnight. The wet alley I was hiding in was infested with rats.

But I didn't care. I was safer then I had been in months.

And I was alive.

It was a good start.


	2. Waking Up

**Chapter One: Waking Up**

Bright lights and the smell of alcohol assailed me as I opened my eyes. I closed my eyes again, annoyed.

It was obvious where I was. A hospital. I started hyperventilating as I remembered the past two months. A machine started beeping.

I took stock of my physical condition as I waited for the beeping to stop. I could move my right leg, but not my left. A cast covered my left shin and foot.

I couldn't breath deeply without lines of fire crisscrossing around my ribs. I touched my chest with my left hand, finding that I was taped up.

My right arm was covered in gauze from my middle finger to my shoulder, from my shoulder to my neck and all the way up the right side of my face. It went across my eyelid and through my brow, ending at my hairline.

I bit my lip; the beeping was really starting to annoy me.

I could feel a large amount of bandaging on my back, which burned with my ribs as I twisted slightly to get into a more comfortable position. I moaned, muttering curses in Arabic, damning all infernal hospital machinery to the deepest circle of hell. As I did whenever I landed myself in a hospital.

I sighed in relief as a nurse came in and shut the machine off.

"You're awake," she smiled. "You've got a few visitors, if you're not in to much pain."

I closed my eyes, pulling up the left side of my face in a sad imitation of a smile. "Sure." I whispered.

She smiled, patted my bandaged shoulder gently, and then left.

- x –X O X – x –

A slightly familiar person entered my little hospital room, worry etched on her face.

"Shalom, Ziva." I whispered, pulling my awkward smile.

"Shalom," she said, watching my eyes. I stared right back at her, until I noticed her companions.

One had very Italian looks. Laugh lines were etched in his face. Tall, well built, he looked like a jokester. I was not impressed. Not impressed at all.

The other was more distinctive. Ice blue eyes were set under thick silver eyebrows and an American military haircut, now also silvered. He looked like a leader, and someone who used his brain. I liked him immediately.

"Ziva? Who're they?" I murmured in Hebrew. I expected her to be alone.

"Special Agents Gibbs and DiNozzo," she answered in English, smiling. "NCIS."

I nodded slightly, uncomfortable. I felt exposed. But of course. The Quran states that a woman must be covered in the presence of men not her father of husband. But I doubted they would be giving me a hijab anytime soon.

"Your name?" The silver haired one, Gibbs, asked.

I hesitated, not looking at them. I decided to lie, sort of. "Naava," I said. "Naava Crescas. Israeli Mossad."

"Mossad?" DiNozzo asked, eyebrows raised. "You're a bit young."

I sighed and twisted my hands together nervously. I didn't want to deal with this! "I'm seventeen."

"Very young." DiNozzo muttered. I laughed, then gasped in pain. Damn ribs.

"Maybe to you, DiNozzo. Not for me." I whispered breathlessly, glancing quickly at Ziva. "Not for us."

Ziva nodded, a sad look on her face.

"Naava, why were you in an alley last night?" Gibbs asked, a little impatiently.

"I was running." I muttered, looking away again.

"From what?"

I could feel the tears coming down my face. Fuck. I didn't want to cry in front of these people. I had a reputation to maintain, even if they didn't know it.

Allah help me, I wanted to talk, but not to them. At least, not when there were men here. Where was Naseema when I needed her?

I shook my head, my tears brimming over. Damn it all, I hate crying!

"I- I – I don't- I- I- " I stuttered, trying to control myself.

Ziva took my uninjured hand and squeezed it gently. "Hush there. Just take your time. Nobody's going to hurt you. Hush," she said in Hebrew, which was something I could have kissed her for. This was humiliating, but considering what I've been though, it was understandable.

I took a shuddering deep breath and winced as my ribs flared in protest. I breathed, in and out, like I was taught. Slowly and deeply (to an extent) until my tears stopped.

"I was running." I whispered in Hebrew. "Three men." I breathed, closing my eyes. "United States Army. They kidnapped me two months ago. They wanted information about Israel's security and intelligence system. They –" I gripped Ziva's hand like a lifeline. It was the only thing that kept me from breaking down again.

"They stopped at nothing to get it." I finished, and those stupid tears where still there. I wiped them away angrily on the back on my bandages. "Nothing."

Ziva looked shocked. "They did all this-" She gestured vaguely to my bandages.

"And more."

"More?"

"Ziva …" I willed her to understand. I didn't want to say the "r" word, not yet. That would just be me giving up what dignity I had. Meltdowns I've had, but only with Naseema. Only in the privacy of my little apartment.

"They … they took … my choice." It was a very, very transparent code very few of us Mossad operatives used.

Her face I will never forget. She was appalled.

"What the hell just happened?" DiNozzo asked, smiling. Joking.

I hated him for it.


	3. Hating Life

Disclaimer: NCIS is not mine. I own Naava, Naseema, and the nurse mentioned in the previous chapter.

**Chapter Two: Hating Life**

I glared at DiNozzo for a second before looking back at Ziva's face. It was a mask.

I wondered why.

"Ziver?" Gibbs asked. "Translation, if you would?" His hard blue eyes bored into my hazel green ones, as if by staring at me he could get the answers from my mind.

Ziva stood and walked out of the room. Gibbs followed, a wary look on his eyes. I pressed my lips together, refusing the urge to scream as I tried to move around.

"Naava?" DiNozzo didn't look at me, instead staring at the wall above me. "How do you know Ziva?"

It was an innocent question, I suppose. One I couldn't answer truthfully. After all, my mother was part of al-Qaeda and my father was labeled a terrorist by the American and Israeli governments. I couldn't answer truthfully, not if I didn't want their help catching the bastards who did this to me.

"Everyone who grew up in the Tel-Aviv headquarters of Mossad knows Ziva David." I lied, meeting his eyes. "She's the Director's daughter, and one of the best of us."

I could see doubt in his eyes, and I laughed, trying to ignore the pain. I wasn't weak; I could go without medication for as long as they didn't force it on me. This dull pain was not as bad as those two months with three former Army men.

"Why do you look surprised, DiNozzo?" I asked, frowning enough to pull at my half-healed face but smiling. Who said I couldn't play with a joker?

"It's nothing," he muttered as Gibbs and Ziva came in. My sort of good mood vanished as I shuddered inwardly at the expression on Gibbs face. It was menacing.

"We're putting you in protective custody. McGee will be by with some technology thingy to help us identify those men. Anything you can tell us now would be helpful."

I bit my swollen lip and shook my head slowly. "Nothing," I whisper. "Nothing yet." I could talk, I could feel it, but I didn't WANT to. The differences between the two were large.

He nodded understandingly, and then gestured to DiNozzo. "Come on."

I glanced at Ziva from the corner of my eye as they left. She stood near the window, looking out at the city below.

"Ziva?"

"Yes?"

"Can you open the shades? It's been too long since I've seen the sun."

Even I could hear the longing in my voice. I longed for the dry heat of Israel, opposed to this humid, sticky heat Washington DC calls its summers. After all, DC was built on a swamp. Of all places to build the capitol of a new nation, those men had to choose a swamp. Americans made little sense to me.

She silently twisted a cord between her fingers, opening the slates of the shades slightly. I felt the sunlight burn my eyes, but I didn't care.

This was my life at the moment. Lying helpless in a hospital, bandaged beyond recognition, mutilated and stripped of my dignity, with a person I barely knew but knew was related to me in blood.

I hated myself for being weak, being afraid, but I hated those men more then anything else in the world.

And if I got my way, I would make them hate their lives as much as I hated mine.


	4. Reassuring Me

No, I'm not actually Muslim, so I apologize in advance if I completely mess up some details about the faith. If you are Muslim and reading this, and notice a mistake, PLEASE DO NOT HESSITATE TO CORRECT ME (yes, I just used bossy caps at you!) through a Review or Private Message. It would be greatly appreciated. (I do have Anonymous Reviews enabled, so please Review. It truly means the world to me.)

Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS or Bram Stoker's _Dracula._ Naava is mine though.

**Chapter 3: Reassuring Me**

I liked Timothy McGee. He looked soft, caring. And he was very awkward when he walked in my hospital room to relieve Ziva.

"Hey Ziva!" McGee greeted her, a small smile playing on his lips. I was sitting up in the bed, ignoring the flares of pain in my ribs as I breathed. A copy _Dracula_ by Bram Stoker lay in my lap, open. I was only though with the first chapter.

"McGee." Ziva nodded to me. "This is Naava Crescas, from Mossad."

McGee looked at me, smiling. "Hello."

"Shalom, Agent McGee." I half-smiled, then started to ignore him by reading the beginning of chapter two of _Dracula_.

"Ducky should be in here in a few minutes. He wanted to talk to some doctor he knew when he was younger." I glanced up, seeing Ziva smile.

"Who's Ducky?" I asked, not looking up from the words I didn't see. I didn't even know who the other characters were.

"Dr. Donald Mallard. He's our ME," responded Ziva. I nodded slightly and tried to read when a voice made me jump.

"Hello Ziva. We didn't see you this morning; Abby was getting worried, not that she'd say much." I froze, closing my eyes. His accent reminded me of one of THEM. Vaguely Irish or British, mixed with the strange dialect of Americans. I had noticed it, slightly, in Ziva.

"Abby worries too much." Ziva said. I could hear her smiling.

"This must be Naava. How're you feeling?" Ducky asked. It took me a second to realize he was talking to me.

I shrugged, which was a mistake. I grimaced and hissed as my back flared in agony. Every line reminded me of broken beer bottle shards tied to cords as they took turns between skinning my back and yelling questions in my ears. Over and over with the same questions …

"Not well, I guess." Ducky tried to put on a reassuring smile. It did not help me at all.

"You wouldn't be 'well' if you were in my position." I replied sarcastically, annoyed. My black hair fell over my shoulder, obscuring my scarring face. For the first time, I was glad I didn't have a hijab. I could hide behind a natural curtain.

I would worry about a hijab later, probably when DiNozzo or Gibbs came for their shift. I made a mental note to ask Ziva if she could find me one.

He pulled up a small chair from beside my bed and sat. Ziva silently pulled McGee out of the room, trying to be inconspicuous.

"Naava." His tone was both kind and calm, so much different from HIM. I was so startled that I looked up, surprise in my face.

"What happened to you?" He asked. Ducky's eyes were so deep and reassuring that I felt myself begin to relax in his presence.

"It's … a long story." I murmured, my eyes searching for the cruelty HE had when HE had spoken to me in the doctor's lined face.

There was none.

"I've got all day," was his reply, smiling slightly.

I could not help but smile back.

My past was laid bare, but I refused to talk about the past two months.


	5. Seeing Faces

**Chapter 4: Seeing Faces**

I woke up the next morning to the smell of cheap coffee. I opened my eyes slightly, watching Gibbs pace near the window.

"Morning, Agent Gibbs." I whispered, slowly sitting up. He glanced at me, startled, his hand instinctively going to his right hip where his gun was holstered.

"Afternoon's more like it." His voice was deep, with a ring of authority.

"Seriously?" I couldn't help but ask, then hissed. Stupid, motherfucking ribs.

Gibbs ignored me, which was just fine with me. I picked up Bram Stocker's apparent "masterpiece" but found I couldn't stomach it. At least McGee had lent something useful to me.

I had spent most of yesterday with Ducky, as he preferred to be called, and McGee. McGee and I had spent the afternoon playing with facial reconstruction software to put THEM though the AFIS database. I didn't know their real names; they used code names.

Washington, London, and Paris. Capitols of the major countries in the United Nations. Not very original, if you were to ask me.

Tony had taken the next shift, after McGee and Ducky had left. I learned more about American movies then I had ever dreamed of, or wanted to know about. Frankly, I think I fell asleep in the middle of his monologue, and he didn't notice. Perhaps that was how he passed the time? I would have to ask Ziva, when she came.

Thankfully, Tony had brought over my bag from Evidence. It was bigger then when I had last seen it; Ziva must have put clothes in it.

I had slept for a good portion of DiNozzo's shift and, apparently, Gibb's shift as well.

This whole protective custody was getting on my nerves. I wanted to DO something, not sit here, reading a book I didn't have the patience to get through. I'd rather be tracking down the bastards, not waiting for the American legal system to pick them up, take them to court, try them, then MAYBE put them in jail to rot.

No.

Rage filled me and, not for the first time, I wanted to kill something.

Ignoring the fire, I grabbed the backpack from the chair next to my bed and swung my legs over the side. I reached for the crutches, stood, and, taking the backpack with me, headed to the bathroom to get out from under Gibb's stare.

I rummaged through the bag once I sat down and smiled grimly.

A pair of loose black sweatpants, a black T-shirt, a grey jacket, sports bra, and underwear. Toiletries: a toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, deodorant, and a few hair ties. Two hijab's were folded in the bottom of the bag, one black, the other a dark blue. A few pins were stuck into the fabric of one.

In one of the many hidden pockets were the things that made me smile. It had not been lost. A necklace with a sliver Hand of Fatima pendant, and two knives with sheathes. One for my thigh, another for my forearm.

I packed everything but the sweatpants, necklace, and the black hijab back into the bag, knowing that the nurses would not want me to get into normal clothes while they still had to change the bandages on my back.

Moving slowly, I tugged the pants on over my cast. My leg looked bulkier then before, but that was fine. I didn't really care.

Fully clothed now, with the hospital gown, I picked up the pendant; it's chain swinging slowly.

This symbol has nothing to do with my religion, but rather it is a symbol of protection. In the Islamic world, it is called the Hand of Fatima. Fatima was the daughter of Mohammed the Prophet, and after her mothers death, Fatima cared for and protected her father and brothers from harm. So it is said, and it is popular among the Arab women, including myself. But not only was it said to protect its wearer from the evil eye; it had a sentimental value for me.

It was the one thing I had left of my mother.

I stared at it for a minute, remembering was had been so many years before. I smiled at the memories, and put it around my neck. It would be covered by the hijab anyway.

I hopped to the mirror, ignoring the crutches. It was easier to put on the hijab in a mirror, though not impossible.

My eyes widened in shock. Who was this person staring back at me? Her hazel eyes were big, and her face was drawn. Pale against the white bandage over her right cheek and forehead, she looked sicker then a corpse. There was no flesh, only bone and skin.

Once again, anger simmered in her—no, my eyes, and I hated what they had done to me. Washington especially; he had been their leader.

My anger subsided as I put on the concealing hijab. With an effort of will, I made myself feel happier. I thought of Naseema.

Beyond the door, a phone rang. Gibbs answered it, talking in a low voice. I could not hear him.

I sighed. Naseema … where is she now? Israel, hopefully. Unless she had been sent away by the Director.

I scooped the backpack off the floor and swung it over my shoulder, flinching when it hit my mutilated back. But I smiled – I was getting better at ignoring the pain without the medication. I opened the door of the bathroom, and frowned slightly as I saw Gibbs' face.

"What is it, Gibbs?" I asked slowly, leaning on the crutches.

"You're being discharged. Ducky can take care of your bandages. And McGee got a hit on one of the men."

I grinned. Finally, things were speeding up.

Turning around, I went to put on the T-shirt and jacket.


	6. The Truth

_Note: Once again, I am not the owner of NCIS. I can dream, but logically, I know better. Naava and Naseema are my own. _

**Chapter 5: The Truth**

Abby chattered on, mostly about what she was doing to the evidence – my personal effects. Some facial recognition software ran, machines whirled to life and beeped whenever they finished their task.

I watched silently.

I liked Abby. She was the happiest Goth I had ever met—scratch that. She was the only Goth I had met. They were not that common in Israel. Smart, cheerful, and she loved her job. A few things I wished I could pull out of a hat and say I was.

Depressed. Deep down, I knew I was depressed. There was no other explanation for it. Naseema gets this way every month, when her blood comes. That, and she has a massive sweet tooth.

"Abby?" I whispered, not wanting to interrupt her.

"Yeah?" Abby smiled, her pigtails flying around her face. "Naava? Something wrong?"

I tried to put a smile on my face, but I think it turned out to be a grimace. "Can I use your computer?" I nodded to the other room, beyond the glass sliding doors. "It'll only be a second."

"Oh sure!" Abby grinned wider, it that was even possible. She grabbed her CafPow and started humming to herself as she chugged her sixth mega size cup.

I grabbed my crutches and heading for her computer. It looked just like the ones in Tel-Aviv. Old, a monster monitor.

~ o – O – X – O – o ~

_Dearest Naseema, _

_Finally, I've been able to write you back. I realize two months is not normal for me not to check in with you, especially when it was just supposed to be a quick mission. Before you get angry, let me explain. _

_To keep it short and sweet, I was captured by three men. They tortured me for information concerning Mossad, then just to make me weaker. I managed, barely, to get out alive, though not unscathed. _

_I'm in Washington DC, in a place called the Navy Yard. The Naval Criminal Investigative Service is currently tracking down the three men. The lead investigator, Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs (Allah, what a name!) seems adequate, though it's ironic that he's on my case. That name should strike a bell; it was in my father's records. Interestingly enough, Ziva David is part of Gibbs's team. That should also strike a bell. But don't tell the director—I do not want him to know. Actually, do not tell the Director that I'm still alive, and safe. Especially safe. _

_Naseema, I know what you are thinking. Do NOT get on the next flight to the United States. I'll be back as soon as I possibly can, which will be after I testify at their trial, if it ever comes to that. You know how slow the Americans system can get. _

_May Allah protect you,_

_Naava_

I hit "Send"; glad I had gotten that out of the way. I was not expecting the almost immediate response.

_Naava!_

_Why didn't you email me sooner?! I've been stressing for the past two months, wondering if you were coming home, if ever. I don't care if you have to testify; I want you home NOW, before you get hurt again!_

I read this, smirking. Naseema, you impatient minx. I hit reply, typing as fast as I was able.

_I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you. It's better for you to stay in Tel-Aviv, where Mossad can look after you for me. You do not realize how dangerous these men are—they will not hesitate to take me back, and you too. They hate all things from the Middle East, from the sand to the people. I don't want you to suffer as I have. _

_Naava_

This seemed to shut her up. It was five minutes before I got a reply.

_Naava,_

_I expect a full explanation when you get home. With luck, I'll see you soon._

I never got to finish reading the rest of that message. Gibbs and Ziva came marching in, ignoring Abby's "Gibbs! Gibbs! I found something!" They stopped in front of me, Gibbs with his neutral look, Ziva looking astonished.

"Naava? Why did you lie to us?" Gibbs said. Abby paused in the doorway, listening.

"What did I lie about? I've told you nothing but the truth." Hopefully, my hazel eyes did not betray my anxiety.

"McGee tracked your email thingy, and found who it was registered to. A Naava Haswari."

I glanced at Ziva, before meeting Gibbs's ice blue eyes.

There was no point in keeping it a secret any longer. Sure, I had just gotten out of the hospital, and these people did not trust me. I was a foreign operative, for all the fact I was 17. I didn't expect their trust, only their help in catching the motherfucking bastards that did this to me.

"Yes, I am. Daughter of Ari Haswari and some al-Qaeda whore he took a fancy to while he was Mossads mole." I laughed once, a cruel and heartless laugh that helped me ignore the pain of others. Once, I had been driven to such an extreme, that I had needed that laugh.

"My sister sends her regards as well."

"You have a sister?" Ziva asked. She was staring at me, like I was an unexpected surprise. I guess I was. This made Ziva my half aunt, and she did not look thrilled with the idea. In fact, she looked a little guilty. I wondered why for the quickest second, but it passed like an errant breeze.

I nodded in affirmation, and pointed to the screen. "Her name is Naseema Haswari, and she is my twin sister."

Gibbs recovered quickly. "Abbs. What do you got?"


	7. Progress and Memories

**Chapter 6: Progress and Memories**

Abby waved Gibbs over, bouncing. "I have two out of three of the men identified." She nodded to the screen on the wall. "Meet Sergeant Connor Livingston, former Army translator. Age 35. Fluent in Arabic and Pashtun, he went on two tours to Afghanistan and Iran. Got a dishonorable discharge in 2004."

_That was five years ago,_ I thought to myself, wheeling the chair closer to Abby.

"What for?" Ziva asked.

"Desertion, and murder of an Iraqi woman. The report said that they claimed she was a hooker," Abby said, rocking back and forth on her five centimeter-high platform boots.

"And the other man?" Ziva asked.

"Private First Class Toby Craig. Age 27. Discharged with Livingston for the same reason, along with this man." Abby pulled up another photograph, which I also recognized. "Private Ivan Varva. Age 25."

Gibbs turned to me, eyebrows raised in silent query.

"I recognize them all. They often referred to each other as brothers." Memories of the past two months flashed behind my eyes, and I flinched slightly. No one noticed.

"Makes sense," McGee said. Gibbs turned to his youngest agent. "I mean, Livingston was the squad leader five years ago, when they were discharged. The were all discharged at the same time for the same reason, so they must be friends now."

"Okay. McGee, trace phone and credit card records. Ziva, put out a BOLO on these three."

Everyone started moving at once. Everyone except me. Gibbs was already out the door before he finished his sentence.

I glanced at Abby. "Is that normal of him?"

"More than you know." Abby sighed. "Are you up for something?"

I met her green eyes warily. "It … depends …"

"I was thinking that it would be good if we could find the place they were … keeping … you. By backtracking your escape, we can find these pervs."

I smiled slightly. "Yeah. Maybe."

I set to work, looking at street maps and Google's fancy street views. Abby kept up a stream of endless chatter, which I either smiled or nodded at. Most of it seemed like nonsense, scientific words intermixed with more scientific dialect.

As I tried to trace my steps back to the source of my torture, the memories made my body ache.

"_Why are you here!?" Washington shouted in my face. I cowered in a corner of the room, the corner farthest from the door. "Why did you come!?"_

_I refused to answer, knowing that he was just going to hurt me again, no matter what I said or didn't say. I tried to melt into the wall, thinking only of the comforting heat of Israel in the spring and my sister's laugh. _

"_Why are you here?!" He grabbed my hair and pulled me upright, then proceeded to punch my torso rhythmically. I felt and heard a rib break, which only made him laugh. _

_Crying in pain, I made no noise. Instead, I glared daggers at him. In one last act of defiance, I spat in his face. The mixture of blood and saliva landed under his right eye. _

"_You think that's funny?" He whispered menacingly. "That's it, you little whore! And you'll get the punishment all you little whores deserve." _

_I shuddered as he shoved me to my knees and unzipped his pants, his erection staring me full in the face. I shied away, knowing what came next and was unhappy with that knowledge. _

_The reluctance in my features must have goaded him on, because that questioning session was harsher than normal. _

I was saved from the rest of that by Abby's gentle hand on my shoulder. "The past is that past. You can't change it."

"I know. It doesn't get any less painful though." I muttered quietly. I quickly checked my email again, and smiled to see a new message from Naseema in my inbox.

_Naava,_

_I know you said not to, but I'm coming to DC anyways. I need to be with you. I'll be landing in Reagan International tomorrow at noon, Insha'Allah. _

_No, Eli does not know that I'm leaving. Besides, he has no hold over me, I'm not Mossad. He can't stop me. _

_I'll see you tomorrow, Insha'Allah. _

_Naseema_

I sighed in resignation. Fine.


End file.
